


I'll Wake at the End

by Unuora



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Demonic Possession, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26400547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unuora/pseuds/Unuora
Summary: When Aziraphale first realized there was something strange going on he thought he could handle it himself. Handling problems before others could notice was just the way it was done. To expect otherwise was unthinkable, ridiculous. It was manageable. It always was. After all, he dealt with the apocalypse well enough. There can’t be much worse than that.He never really thought of mentioning it to Crowley. He had it handled. It wasn’t until he was opening the strange book that he thought of Crowley at all. It was the first shock of magic that made him think of him, and then it was too late. By the time he felt the first spark all Aziraphale thought of was Crowley, sharp and clear in his mind, as the book opened a conduit directly down to Hell. All he thought about was Crowley as he felt the boundaries of his body fade, a demon taking hold of his vacated vessel, and with distant finality he watched a demon stretch his limbs in his body.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	I'll Wake at the End

**Author's Note:**

> *gets close to the mic*
> 
> this is an ode to that real motherfucker called mental illness
> 
> they've been a right bitch and i'm going to pretend i didn't realize i wrote 13k projecting about it.
> 
> i hope u enjoy the fic & be kind to yourself guys

When Aziraphale first realized there was something strange going on he thought he could handle it himself. Handling problems before others could notice was just the way it was done. To expect otherwise was unthinkable, ridiculous. It was manageable. It always was. After all, he dealt with the apocalypse well enough. There can’t be much worse than that.

He never really thought of mentioning it to Crowley. He had it handled. It wasn’t until he was opening the strange book that he thought of Crowley at all. It was the first shock of magic that made him think of him, and then it was too late. By the time he felt the first spark all Aziraphale thought of was Crowley, sharp and clear in his mind, as the book opened a conduit directly down to Hell. All he thought about was Crowley as he felt the boundaries of his body fade, a demon taking hold of his vacated vessel, and with distant finality he watched a demon stretch his limbs in his body.

He’s an ethereal being. He’s familiar with the ins and outs of possession, and how to stretch his legs in a shared form so to speak. But this was no generous possession, and Aziraphale felt himself fade from consciousness.

“This isn’t really what I was looking for, but good enough,” the demon laughs in his voice. “Thanks for the body, angel.” The last thing that Aziraphale thinks is _only Crowley can call me that_.

When Aziraphale’s consciousness returns to him he has no idea how long it’s been. He feels hazy and confused, an unmoored, floating thing, and his first coherent thought is _Crowley_.

Crowley isn’t here, though. It becomes quickly apparent that he’s trapped, stifled within his own corporation. He can’t as much as twitch a finger. The weight of another’s essence in his body pushes him down into the dregs of himself, perilously cut off from the rest of the world.

If he focuses he can feel what the demon is doing with his body. He feels the motion of his legs, walking, and then slowly he can hear the sounds of city life around him. Finally, he can see, the blurry image of the world shifting into clarity like a telescope aligning into focus.

The demon is taking Aziraphale’s corporation through London, shopping, temping random passersby. He doesn’t seem to be doing anything in particular, just drifting through human society like Aziraphale and Crowley had done for millennia.

Crowley. Aziraphale knows he doesn’t have the strength to fight off the possession of this demon, and he’s wary to try lest he’s forced back down into unconsciousness if he’s noticed. The thought of Crowley almost makes him attempt, though, the sheer panic of not knowing.

Crowley would not leave him alone for long. Had he noticed that Aziraphale was possessed and tried to fight him off? He certainly hadn’t won considering the demon was still here. Had Crowley been discorporated? Worse? The fear sinks into Aziraphale deep and crushing. If Aziraphale’s negligence had a hand in Crowley’s death he would never forgive himself.

Aziraphale has nearly worked himself into a panic when the demon walks into the bookshop and Crowley’s there, quietly sat on the couch. It makes Aziraphale’s heart stutter up into his throat, torn between knowing he’s safe, thank God, he’s okay, and the dawning realization that Crowley hadn’t realized Aziraphale’s gone.

How long has it been? Hours? Days?

Crowley is uncharacteristically quiet when the demon walks in, making himself comfortable. It was the first thing that sent up red flags; the second was the way Crowley unmoving, silently, watches from his post at the couch. Crowley apparently has nothing to say on the way the demon rifles through some books on spell work and demonology in Aziraphale’s body. Or at least, nothing that hasn’t already been said, or previously established.

Aziraphale’s let this go for far too long already.

He’s entirely helpless this way, too far away to do anything but exist as a witness. Every touch, sight, or sound is being filtered as if through an ocean. He sees his life through the watery lens of a drowning man. He wants to be back in control of his body. The anger that bubbles up within him is acidic, sharp. He wants to throw this demon straight back down to Hell where he belongs.

If he could just get a grip he _could_ smite this demon. He’s an angel. He fought in the celestial war. He just needs to—

“Hey, angel?” The sound of Crowley’s voice would’ve made Aziraphale jump if he had any control of his body. As it were the demon in Aziraphale’s corporation hardly even reacts, not even looking up from the page. “Are you feeling alright? You seem a bit… ah, tumultuous.”

The demon hums, and suddenly Aziraphale feels himself tamped down from where he felt like he was going to burst. So much for not being noticed. “Fine, thank you,” the demon says. He turns the page nonchalantly, entirely unaffected.

There’s a moment of hesitant silence. “You sure?”

Reluctantly the demon’s gaze swivels to him. An expression on Crowley’s face passes too quickly to parse, but something about it makes Aziraphale’s skin crawl.

“Oh, you worry too much, dear,” the demon says. His voice has gone saccharine sweet, doting even, and when the demon stands to sweep towards Crowley he shies away. “You’re wearing just yourself thin. You should take a rest.”

“I’m fine, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, and then freezes abruptly when the demon looms over him. Aziraphale is helpless to just stare with it.

“Look at you,” the demon chides in Aziraphale’s voice. “You’re a mess. I insist you go lie down this instant.”

“It’s not—I’d rather not,” Crowley starts, surprisingly quiet. “Sleep hasn’t been, ah, well, I don’t think sleep will help.”

“Nonsense,” the demon says, “You’ll surely feel better in the morning.” He waves Crowley up off the couch, who obligingly walks up the stairs to the bedroom. This doesn’t seem to faze Crowley, but Aziraphale would gape if he could. He could count the number of times Crowley’s been upstairs in his flat on one hand. Yet he goes, unquestioningly, like it’s something that he does every day. What has this demon been doing?

The demon doesn’t follow, instead puttering about with Aziraphale’s books in his hands for a while. Aziraphale isn’t sure what he’s looking for, seemingly just haphazardly flipping through books on magic and prophecy. He doesn’t seem to make much headway, just sighing and snapping books closed exasperatedly.

There doesn’t be much connection besides for many of the books being related to human magic. Aziraphale has no idea what a demon could want with human magic when he has miracles at his fingertips. One snap of his fingers and he could have whatever he wanted, so why bother with candles and sagebrush?

Just as Aziraphale’s begun to get tripped up in his thoughts the demon snaps, and seemingly nothing happens. For half a second Aziraphale wonders if that’s why, if he’s been cut off—but then he remembers Crowley.

“Sweet dreams, dear,” the demon says, wryly. There’s nothing outwardly obvious about what the demon just did, but with Crowley upstairs Aziraphale has no way of knowing. All he can do is worry. He doesn’t have much time for it, though, because within the hour Crowley begins to scream.

It’s a sound that makes fear crawl up Aziraphale’s spine, but the demon doesn’t seem to mind. It’s like he expects it, almost. By the time he’s making his way up the stairs Crowley’s quieted, but fear runs thick through Aziraphale’s veins. Crowley’s been up there, vulnerable and asleep. What could he have _done_?

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s voice comes wavering out of the room in response to the stairs creaking.

“Yes?” The demon says. Crowley comes stumbling out of the bedroom, disheveled and breathing heavy. There are tears brimming in his eyes, ones that he quickly scrubs away, and Aziraphale’s frantic thoughts come crashing to a halt. They’re immediately replaced with _you dirty conniving rat,_ and _if you touch him I’m going to destroy every atom of you_. His spite seems ineffectual. “I heard screaming, are you alright?”

“I,” Crowley starts, the word sticking in his mouth. He looks at the demon wearing Aziraphale’s face imploringly, in a longing way that Aziraphale has writhing in jealousy. “Can you come here?” His voice cracks badly, body curling into himself when the demon sighs.

“You know I keep telling you that I’m terribly busy,” the demon says, and Crowley takes a step back, hip clipping the doorframe of the bedroom.

“Yes, sorry,” Crowley says, words barely a soft breath in a way Aziraphale had never heard from him before. It makes something in Aziraphale’s chest judder in fear. There’s something terribly wrong here. Worse than he feared.

“Oh, alright, just for a few minutes,” the demon sighs as if this is some great concession. Crowley wordlessly makes way for him when he sweeps into the bedroom. The demon sits on the edge of the bed, arms open, and after only a moment’s hesitation Crowley falls into his arms. The shuddering sigh Crowley gives is heart wrenching, even beyond the bewildering alarm Aziraphale feels. Neither Crowley nor the demon say anything in response to all this, the demon begrudgingly holding Crowley as he clutched at him.

Helplessly, Aziraphale stares down at his beloved through the eyes of the enemy, and he feels fury resolve itself inside him.

Whatever is happening he will not let it stand.

If the demon knows that Aziraphale is cognizant he doesn’t show it. The next few days go by in a hellish blur that almost as disorienting as it is horrifying. To be trapped in one’s own body with no autonomy is truly wretched, and it occurs to Aziraphale that the demon may be doing it on purpose. Hell has never had the audacity to harm an angel before, but commandeering his corporation isn’t necessarily committing harm and Aziraphale is not part of Heaven anymore, per se. And with God… well, it seems She isn’t listening much any longer.

_What could you possibly want from me?_ Aziraphale tries to project his voice to the demon. He’s never been possessed by a demon before, he’d never even think it be possible before the swap with Crowley. If the demon can hear him, if it’s even possible to communicate when one partner is so unwilling, he has no idea. But he has to try something. _Holy weapons? Information on upstairs? I’m estranged from Heaven, you cursed thing, can’t you bother someone else._

It doesn’t take long for it to get boring. Crowley rarely seems to leave the bookshop, but the demon so seldom does either. Occasionally he’ll go on a dizzying jaunt with Aziraphale as his unwilling passenger but he always circles back to mistreating his books and scowling down at Crowley.

The demon reads a lot of books; tons, reading at such a voracious pace that the stacks next to the desk have been risen near past his hip. Most of them are on old magic, history, spell books of dubious origin. He dabbles in some of the prophecy books. It rankles the most that he can’t be bothered to put those away properly after reading them. 

After reading a book the demon tosses it with enough carelessness onto the floor that Crowley flinches from where he’s sat on the couch. He doesn’t say anything, not anymore, no, but out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale sees the way his worried gaze flickers to the book and to the demon hunched over yet another massive tome.

If Aziraphale could scowl he would. The flare of irritation he feels is all the more tempered by the embers of all the other small furies he suffered. He’s gotten into a terrible habit of swearing at the demon when he does something uncouth and this is no exception. But this time, this time the demon responds.

_Oh, shut up_. Aziraphale can hear the demon’s voice clear in his head as if he’s speaking aloud, but a quick glance at Crowley still perched in the demon’s peripheral vision says that he hadn’t. _If I knew you’d be such a loudmouth I would’ve suffocated you from the start_.

_You can hear me_. There’s a bitter laugh bubbling in his chest and he tries to fight it back, if only because it would discredit what he wants to say. _Stop playing these games and tell me what you want already_.

_You’ve already given it to me_ , the demon says. He looks at Crowley, who fidgets, looking away from his phone when he notices eyes on him. _Entertainment_.

“Aziraphale?” Oh, Aziraphale hates to hear Crowley sound so tentative. He has no idea what kind of look the demon is giving Crowley, but it’s enough to make him squirm under his gaze, standing up to escape it. “If you want me to go you can just say.”

“Oh, no,” the demon says, his voice so suddenly cloying and soft. He puts the book down to make his way to Crowley, who freezes where he was fiddling with the edge of a throw blanket. “You’re fine right here. Stay.”

The demon puts a hand on Crowley’s cheek, and the way he leans into it makes Aziraphale’s stomach clench. It’s more softness than Aziraphale’s ever seen from Crowley and he doesn’t even get to be the true recipient of it. This monster—this manipulative cretin—is prying the things Aziraphale had dreamed about into this hellish perversion.

_When I get out of here_ Aziraphale promises _I am going to destroy you entirely, demon. There will be nothing left but ashes._

Aziraphale’s owned a vanity since sometime in the late 1800’s. Crowley used to tease him for in the way he does, goading him with questions of modern fashion and the like. Still, it sat upstairs in the loft, untouched for years. He kept it for sentimental reasons, maybe. It was a gorgeous piece of work. And truly, Crowley had loved it far more than him. If he ever… if he ever managed to ask it could be his, without question.

Regardless, it’s not Crowley’s, and at the moment it is hardly Aziraphale’s either. The demon took a bizarre fascination with everything in Aziraphale’s loft, despite how much of it is just sentimental stuff hoarded over the years. The first time the demon goes upstairs with Aziraphale awake enough to pay attention he notices how everything has been touched, moved, tweaked.

The bed’s unmade and slightly crooked. The smattering of jewelry Aziraphale kept is haphazardly dumped in piles, cufflinks mismatched and delicate necklace chains tangled. The demon’s own growing collection is no better. Fancy watches tossed about, the discarded packaging of some new tech, gorgeous clothes hung on hangers in a now congested closet. Among all the chaos is the little vanity, pressed against the wall, just as Aziraphale left it. It’s the only thing that’s remained untouched.

When the demon walks by it Aziraphale’s shocked to note that the reflection in the mirror is not his own corporation’s but a face that Aziraphale’s never seen before. The demon’s.

_So that’s you,_ he thinks, and the demon’s attention snaps to the vanity. The smile on his face is sly and aloof. His appearance is a far cry from the disheveled griminess Hastur had, and Aziraphale could nearly mistake him for a human if not for the jagged line of narrow, needle sharp teeth that are revealed when his lips curl back.

“Oh,” the demon says, sitting at the vanity and preening in the mirror for a moment. It’s disconcerting to feel himself turned about while he watches the likeness of this demon be reflected back at him. The demon runs a hand along his face, the reflection of the gesture distorted due to their differences in face shape. “Well, soon.”

_It’s rude that you yet to introduce yourself,_ Aziraphale says to him, and the grin widens.

“Well, demon,” he says, gesturing at himself vaguely. “You should know all about them. Though yours doesn’t seem to be cut from the same cloth. Does he cry for you as sweetly as he does for me?”

It’s clear he’s goading him. Into what, Aziraphale’s not sure, but he tries hard to stifle down the anger boiling within him.

_You should really tell me your name,_ Aziraphale says, _so I can have a name to curse when I strike you from your body._

The demon laughs at that, more mirthful than seems appropriate. By the end he’s still looking at himself in the mirror, captivated. He can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the silvery eyes reflected back at him. Aziraphale can feel his whole focus being diverted, but whatever he’s thinking it’s obscured to him.

“Oh, we can only hope,” the demon says eventually. “Rathis. My name is Rathis.”

_I would say it’s nice to meet you_ _but I think you’re overstaying your welcome,_ Aziraphale says, and Rathis laughs again. He goes remarkably silent after that, just sitting at the vanity, contemplative. With Rathis’s focus diverted he wonders what he could get away with.

Aziraphale looks down at where his corporation’s hands are resting on the vanity, and hones in on one hand, on one finger. It’s like running through water. It’s like pushing a boulder uphill. It’s like he’s forcing himself back into every individual cell he has, one at a time, slow and agonizing.

But then, then he sees a twitch. First the pointer, then the thumb, and then he’s delicately flexing his hand, praying Rathis won’t notice. He doesn’t, not at first, not until Aziraphale’s reclaimed both his hands. They tingle like they’ve been asleep, blood rushing back in pins and needles, and just the effort of pulling part of his body back under control has exhausted Aziraphale.

Before Aziraphale can really do anything Rathis has snapped back to awareness. Aziraphale’s efforts seem to have mostly immobilized him, but a wicked grin grows on Rathis’s face.

“Planning an escape?” Rathis hisses, and Aziraphale feels him push against Aziraphale’s tenuous control.

_I told you I have some threats to execute,_ Aziraphale bites back, but there’s no way he’ll be able to hold out against Rathis’s control. He feels himself wavering already. Yet the concept invigorates him. That it _is_ possible to fight back makes him want to know just how far he can push.

For a moment Aziraphale revels in Rathis’s noises of exertion as he tries to grapple control again only for Aziraphale to fight him off. It’s not sustainable, but the burst of panic Aziraphale sees in the mirror image of Rathis’s face is incredible.

“In all the nine circles of Hell—“ Rathis spits, and then Aziraphale can practically feel the burn of anger as it flares through their shared corporation. “I know you can’t pull this off, angel. And when you’re back in your box where you belong I’ll take it out on _him_.”

It’s nearly enough to stop him. There’s no way he can fight off Rathis entirely, and it would be unforgivable to put Crowley in danger so pointlessly. He nearly gives in and lets Rathis take full control again, but there’s something in the glint in his eye.

Fear. It’s fear.

“Ah _ah_ , don’t be so foolish, angel, I’m going _easy_ on him,” Rathis laughs. With Aziraphale and him warring over his corporation his arms are tense, raised up in an uncomfortable way. His fingers are spread in a caricature of agony, fingers clawed with horrible strain. It is altogether unfitting with the expression split with a self-satisfied grin.

“Your little pet has been such a nice toy, but I haven’t hurt him,” Rathis says. “No, if I do that I’ll make you watch.”

_Shut up._ Aziraphale says. He wanted to say something witty and scathing about how he shouldn’t be the one making threats, or about who should be scared, but Rathis was describing his worst fear since he woke up.

“Yes,” Rathis says, realizing he hit a nerve. “And to him he’ll see his darling angel, who he’s so _woefully_ and _dutifully_ waited after all this time—“

_Shut up!_ The clawed hands turn to fists.

“—turn violent against him with no idea why. You’ll have a front row seat to his betrayal as I squeeze the life out of him with _your_ hands, and _your_ face—“

“Shut up!” Aziraphale shouts, driving a clenched fist into the vanity mirror, sending it shattering into a thousand pieces. For a moment Aziraphale just sits there, breathing heavy.

Then, he realizes he did that. He shouted, he broke the mirror, he—he looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. The sting in his knuckles feels inordinately grounding. Before he can really celebrate there’s a noise at the stairs, and the door to the bedroom is swinging open.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s hunched in the doorway, panicked and wide eyed. He’s not wearing his sunglasses, and Aziraphale watches with some trepidation as his eyes track from the vanity to Aziraphale’s bloody knuckles. His voice seems to die in his throat. “What…”

Aziraphale wants to fall to his knees at Crowley’s feet, but his legs don’t seem to be working. Instead he sits there, steadfast in his seat, hoping some part of his expression reveals something to Crowley.

“Crowley,” he pleads and then breaks into coughing as he feels Rathis try to crawl his wretched way back up his throat. Crowley fumbles his way to Aziraphale’s side, and despite how Rathis has surely been treating him his face is still lined with concern.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asks, eyes flicking around the broken vanity to the cluttered room around them. “Is there something—did someone—“

“Demon,” Aziraphale gasps and it draws Crowley up short. Before Aziraphale can decipher his reaction Rathis is throwing him away from his corporation. Then, through the ringing in his ears Aziraphale hears Rathis hiss, “ _Demon_.”

There’s a clatter and Aziraphale’s blurry vision focuses on Rathis pinning Crowley down on the ground. Aziraphale gets a half second’s glance at Crowley’s face before he falls into unconsciousness.

“It’s no fun if you’re not around to see it,” Rathis says when Aziraphale regains himself. It’s a strange experiencing, waking up oppressed in his own corporation. He wants to stretch and rub his head, but his arms and head are mostly concepts at the moment. It doesn’t stop them from hurting, though.

_Leave Crowley alone,_ Aziraphale says. He’s trying not to think about the gut wrenching betrayal in Crowley’s eyes. Once he gets out of this he has no idea how he’s going to apologize. There’s no way Crowley will be able to look him in the eye again. He needs to do something. _Please. I’m begging you. He’s done nothing wrong._

“Except be a wretched excuse for a demon, that is,” Rathis says. Aziraphale comes to the realization that he’s flipping through textbooks haphazardly on the couch. There’s no sign of Crowley.

_Is that why you’re here? To exact revenge for Beelzebub?_

“Hah!” Rathis snaps a book closed. “No.”

Aziraphale watches Rathis pick up another book. This one is titled _Demonology of the Ages._

_No,_ Aziraphale agrees. _You’re looking for something. What if I helped you?_

“What happened to all the threats?” Rathis says, continuing his fruitless rifling. He doesn’t even stop at the index. Savage.

_If I help you then you’ll leave_.

_“_ Is that what you think?” Rathis quiets for a moment, reading a line studiously for a moment. It’s some rot about demon summoning. Aziraphale knows enough to be sure that it isn’t true. To think that humans believe that a few candles and herbs could connect one to the supernatural.

_Tell me what you want and I’ll help you get it. Then neither of us has to see each other ever again._

“Didn’t anyone warn you about making deals with demons, angel?” Rathis smiles to himself but doesn’t say anything past that. He’s eerily quiet until Crowley sneaks back into the shop and then Aziraphale’s stifled back into the blackness.

In a distant, far away kind of way Aziraphale realizes he’s getting stronger. The longer Rathis keeps him stifled down like a muzzled dog the more time he has to feel out the boundaries of this possession. There are weaknesses in Rathis’s hold even if it seems as if he’s all powerful.

The longer this goes on the more often Aziraphale’s able to grapple his way to the surface and earn a scant few minutes of autonomy. It should be a success. It’s hard for it to feel as such when he feels like he’s drowning. No matter how hard he fights he’s pulled back under the tide of possession before anything substantial can be done.

And he’s worried about Crowley.

He has no idea what it looks like to Crowley. It can’t be good. The few times he’d been around when Aziraphale had found himself again he’d treated him warily, as if he’s an enemy that can’t be trusted.

Aziraphale supposes that’s true. It still makes trying to communicate with him challenging. The first time Aziraphale tries to discuss the demon with him Crowley stumbles away, fumbling up to the bedroom upstairs and closing the door tight. Before Aziraphale had a chance to decipher that he was falling into darkness once again.

The next time goes just as poorly. When Aziraphale finds him hunched on the couch he tenses, and when he sits on the couch next to him Crowley nearly goes catatonic. Despite whatever antics Crowley put on Aziraphale always saw the anxiety in him. This is different, more terrifying. The nerves were never about him, never _because_ of him.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Crowley,” Aziraphale manages.

Something in Crowley’s face tightens. He doesn’t say anything else, and the wary expression doesn’t go away.

“Um,” Aziraphale says. He was expecting… something. Anything. He doesn’t know how to continue from here. “There’s a demon about—well, just here. There’s a demon here and, oh dear, he’s been making me do terrible things, and I just want to apologize—“

“If you want me to leave you can just say,” Crowley snaps.

Aziraphale gapes at him. “What?” Mentally, Aziraphale jumps through their conversation so far to figure out what went wrong. There’s not much to review, and Aziraphale still can’t figure it out.

Crowley just shoves himself out of the couch and goes to stalk away only to be stopped by Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale expects the expression turned on him to be anger but it’s more sadness. It’s more fear.

“Please,” Aziraphale says. “Wait. Let me explain.”

He doesn’t get a chance to. By the time Crowley’s willing to sit and listen his time has run up. It’s just enough time for his hopefully cautious expression to change to fear again and then Aziraphale’s world falls away.

It’s the only time he’s been truly grateful he didn’t see what happened next.

He tries to research exorcisms, but he mostly ends up fumbling frantically though pages before his corporation is wrenched from him again. The short windows of time he has makes his plans for escape very limited. He doesn’t even know how to utilize something like holy water in the maybe ten minutes he has. A taxi ride would take longer than that.

He tries to leave notes, then. He has no idea if Crowley’s reading them, and in the minutes of possession he’s wrestled free for himself he has no proof he’s even getting them. There’s a high likelihood that Rathis is just burning them the moment he gets control again.

It’s a situation he feels eerily familiar with. There’s no one listening now. There never has been.

The next time he has the strength for it and he takes control of his corporation again he makes a point of trying to stifle Rathis as far down as he’ll go. He wants as much time as possible. Every second is unspeakably valuable.

Crowley’s always around somewhere. Aziraphale can’t quite wrap his head around why. If Rathis is using his corporation to make Crowley’s life miserable, then why does he stay? Crowley has his own apartment and his own life. Yet, somehow, every time Aziraphale finds himself in control again Crowley’s somewhere nearby, so close that he’s nearly in arms reach.

It’s something that would’ve made him feel comforted before, but now he just envisions Rathis abusing that amiability. Whatever Crowley’s trying to do he’s never going to get it with a demon hijacking Aziraphale’s body. But still, he’s waiting.

And when Aziraphale goes upstairs Crowley’s there, tucked beneath the covers. Aziraphale can tell he’s not asleep, and the tension that rises in his shoulders when the door opens makes him feel guilty for disturbing him.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispers. He nearly gives in to cowardice, but decides that he has to be brave. Crowley’s been brave enough for the both of them lately. “Can I sit here?”

Crowley looks over his shoulder at him, one eye peering at him in the darkness. After a hesitant moment he nods.

“You may tell me no, because I know after—after everything—well, I just wanted to ask, um.” Aziraphale closes his eyes for a moment. “May I hug you?”

“Ah,” is all Crowley says for a long moment. There’s a shuffle as he sits up to look at Aziraphale, still holding a fold of blanket close to his chest. “Uh, sure?”

Despite getting an affirmative Crowley doesn’t sound too positive, so Aziraphale just opens his arms and hopes he will come. After another slow moment he does, shuffling forward enough for Aziraphale to wrap his arms around Crowley’s shoulders. It’s terrifyingly awkward at first. Crowley’s tense and full of anticipation, only allowing the barest amount of skin contact with the rest of his body angled away. But after the moments tick by where Aziraphale does nothing but run a hand down his back he begins to relax. Before he knows it Crowley looks more comfortable than he’s seen him in months.

He could stay there forever. They don’t have forever, though.

“Crowley, um,” Aziraphale starts. “I need to ask you a favor.”

He tries not to pay too much attention to the way the tension in Crowley’s frame returns. There’s no coming back from this, but Aziraphale thinks that maybe he’s already too deep in this to come back from it.

“Crowley, I need you to leave. I need you to leave and not look back.”

Aziraphale was expecting to have to press, but Crowley acts as if he was expecting the conversation to happen. He takes it all with unnerving silence, and by the end of it he’s walking out of the shop with barely another word.

And then Aziraphale’s alone. He’s alone until Rathis takes back over and pulls Aziraphale until darkness again. Whatever happens now Aziraphale can be sure Rathis can’t use Crowley for blackmail. Whatever happens Crowley will not be collateral damage.

He spends what feels like a hundred years in that darkness. There’s no point in fighting to the surface without a plan, and no matter how hard he thinks he can’t put together anything that has a hope of working. It’s easier to stay submerged. The effort of scrabbling and brawling for the slightest scrap of light is too much.

It’s dark for what feels like eternity.

It’s dark until suddenly it’s not. Until suddenly he’s gasping awake to the image of Crowley approaching him with— a cup?

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “What…” Crowley stops, but the determined neutrality on his face doesn’t slip.

“It won’t be a problem if everything is fine, right?” Crowley hisses. There’s something furious in his eyes, even behind the glasses. “So just take it.”

“What,” Aziraphale starts, and then looks at the thing in Crowley’s hands again. He barely manages to stifle a gasp, feeling his heart skip in fear. “Is that holy water?”

Something about that makes a mote of surprise pass Crowley’s face. “Angel…” Crowley says warily. It’s a step up from looking like he was half a second from a brawl. There’s no way Aziraphale’s letting this go, though.

“Where did you get that? Of all the irresponsible things—“ Aziraphale starts, but he doesn’t get very far because before he can get another word in Crowley’s throwing the water onto him. Aziraphale sputters in surprise, feeling the water soak through his coat and into his undershirt. They both blink at each other for a moment.

“I was, ah, expecting something more dramatic,” Crowley confesses, sheepishly. It’s enough to make Aziraphale bark out a laugh, albeit the kind that veers a bit closer to hysterical. With the threat gone Aziraphale can feel Rathis trying to wrest control back from under Aziraphale’s fingers.

“Sorry, dear, but I don’t think that worked,” Aziraphale says, and hazards for a smile. It doesn’t quite fit right, turning into a grimace of pain. Aziraphale’s eyes flick up to Crowley, still holding the empty cup in hands. It has a tartan pattern on it. It gives Aziraphale an idea, though. “I need more holy water.”

“Er, uh,” Crowley manages, looking around as if it would just spring out of the ground if he looked in the right place. “That was all I had.”

“Just water, then,” Aziraphale says. He grinds his teeth, feeling the pressure behind his eyes that’s a telltale sign Rathis is gaining traction. “Hurry.”

Fumbling, Crowley refills the cup with a miracle and hands it to Aziraphale with a hopeful, pleading look in his eyes. Trying for a smile Aziraphale conjures a blessing. It’s a challenge with his corporation barely together, but after a few painful moments he manages it. Then he drinks it all down, giving in to Rathis’s pull.

Perhaps Rathis realized what was happening before it did, but it was not enough time. Aziraphale had been barely keeping him at bay, and once he gave in Rathis was launched into the control of his corporation recklessly. Aziraphale felt the burning pain of the holy water within moments, and then his body was falling to the ground. Distantly he can hear Crowley panicking, asking him if he’s okay, and Aziraphale will surely be mad at him for the holy water later. But when he falls into true unconscious for the first time in months all he can think of is _thank you_.

Aziraphale wakes up in a bed. It’s not necessarily an experience he’s familiar with, but this time he finds himself beginning to understand why Crowley spends so much time sleeping. He’s comfortable. It helps that he’s entirely unwilling to move. He feels sore from the inside out, like he’d been hollowed out. If he could manage it he’d go to sleep for another hundred years too.

But then he remembers: Crowley. Crowley got holy water. Crowley is—

He tries to sit up and is kept down by the burning in his chest. It’s like he swallowed Hellfire. He supposes he did technically burn part of himself away with his holy water stunt. The pain is a horrible, throbbing thing just under his breastbone, like his heart has burst. It’s all he can do but sit and breathe through it.

“Angel!” Then Crowley’s there at his side, close enough to touch. Grimacing through the pain Aziraphale looks up at him, feeling fondness and relief bloom in his chest.

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale says instinctively, and gives up on trying to sit up. With Crowley’s guidance he lets himself flop back down into the blankets and pillows, feeling himself sink into the softness.

“I—I don’t think there’s anything to thank _Her_ for,” Crowley hisses, making an aimless gesture with the hand he doesn’t have on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Yes, you’re right,” Aziraphale says, feeling light enough that he could laugh. The relief in his veins is like straight morphine. “You’re absolutely right. I should thank you instead.”

“Nnn, no you shouldn’t,” Crowley blurts out, and then takes on the expression of someone who wishes they hadn’t opened their mouth. He visibly fumbles for a moment before schooling his expression into something akin to neutrality. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” Aziraphale answers. Crowley’s expression tightens imperceptibly.

“I’m—I’m glad you’re okay,” Crowley says. “It could’ve—you should’ve— I’m glad you’re okay.” Crowley pulls away from where he’d half climbed onto the bed to help Aziraphale, and he hovers anxiously, unsure what to do with himself.

“Are you okay?” Aziraphale asks after a moment, looking over Crowley closely. He doesn’t look harmed, but Aziraphale knows that’s not all there is to the story.

“Yes,” Crowley says. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. He glances up at Aziraphale for a moment before taking a step back from the bed, then another. “I’ll just leave you—you’re probably, ah, tired.”

“You don’t have to,” Aziraphale says before he can get very far. The anxiety radiating off of Crowley has done a good job at tempering the euphoric relief in him. “I’d like you to stay. We should talk.”

“I, well, no rush,” Crowley says, but obligingly he doesn’t leave Aziraphale’s sight. “We can wait until—until you get better, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says. “For what happened.”

“I’m still not clear what did,” Crowley says, still looking uncomfortable. “What happened.”

“Um,” Aziraphale says. He has no idea what he needs to explain. What did Crowley know? Enough to bring holy water. Not enough to keep him away from Rathis’s influence. “I found a cursed book. I thought I could handle it myself but, ah, well, it summoned a demon. I thought I could—well, I thought I had it handled.”

There’s a moment of taunt silence, then, seemingly unbidden, “And you didn’t think of saying anything to me?”

That’s the question. “Well, I tried, after the possession,” Aziraphale says, weakly. “I know it would’ve been prudent to—I know I should’ve asked for help… I’m sorry.”

“That’s—that’s not good enough. Before anything like this happens again, I need you to—” Crowley stops, pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose, as if he could hold himself together through sheer force of will. “No, it’s fine. You just—you just have to get better. Just get better.”

Something in that rankles Aziraphale. He wants to argue that Crowley can’t be around to protect him from everything. He wants to argue that he doesn’t need to. He wants to get angry and he wants to fight, but he can’t even sit up right now. Besides, Crowley looks so small and fragile. Aziraphale doesn’t want to be the thing that breaks him. When Crowley sits on the edge of the bed he’s close enough to touch if he’s wanted, but far enough not to if he isn’t.

Aziraphale puts a hand over Crowley’s, and even though he squeezes back he feels a hundred miles away. “You’ll stay?”

“’Course,” Crowley says.

He thinks about saying _thank you_ , or maybe _come here_. Mostly he thinks about saying _I’m so glad you’re okay, I love you_ but there’s something long and distant in Crowley’s eyes and Aziraphale feels too lost to find him.

When Aziraphale wakes up the next morning he goes downstairs to find Crowley systematically dismantling the back room of his shop.

“What are you _doing_?” Aziraphale knows that his books took a fair deal of damage due to Rathis’s hand, but it still doesn’t make Crowley emptying the room of books feel any better.

“Which book was the cursed one,” Crowley says. There’s no humor in his eyes. He looks like a man on a mission. “We need to go through your belongings and make sure there’s no more curses.”

“Why?” Aziraphale is trying not to sound petulant but he’s tired after just walking down the stairs. What he really wants is for his shop to go back to looking how it did before the demon mucked everything up.

“ _Because_ ,” Crowley says severely. “There was a _demon_ living in your body and your house for months and it needs to be safe. We need to put wards up, too. Good ones. Maybe I should give that book girl a call.”

“There doesn’t need to be _wards_ in my bookshop, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, exasperated.

“There _does_ ,” Crowley hisses. “There could be enemies anywhere and I’m not waiting for them to stumble back in here.”

“I managed quite alright on my own, you know,” Aziraphale says stiffly. Crowley stops what he’s doing to glower over a tower of books at Aziraphale.

“Sure, just like you did in Paris and, oh, remember that time in Australia—“

“Well you needn’t put yourself out if you’re going to hold it over me like that,” Aziraphale says. Something in Crowley’s face contorts. He slams a book onto a stack with such force it makes Aziraphale scowl.

“You nearly _died_ , Aziraphale!” Crowley says this with a kind of conviction that Aziraphale doesn’t understand.

“You could’ve, too,” Aziraphale says. “Holy water, Crowley?”

“Oh, please,” Crowley snarls. “Don’t turn it on me now. What other choice did I have? After months of watching y-you…” His voice fades out for a moment. “I had to do something. You wanted me to _leave_.”

Aziraphale makes a protesting noise. “I wanted to keep you safe.”

“And making me sit by and watch your irresponsible ass die,” Crowley says heatedly. Never before has Aziraphale wished to see behind his sunglasses more than today. “Which I will not be doing ever again, thank you very much. So _ward the shop_ or so help me Aziraphale.”

That empty feeling comes across Aziraphale again and he’s helpless to stop it. He just gapes at Crowley, unable to make any words come. “I’m sorry,” is all Aziraphale can say.

It seems to fracture Crowley because all the anger in him drains out in between heartbeats. “It’s fine, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He closes his eyes for a breath. “Please, just do what I ask for once?”

It’s not like Crowley to say please. Before Crowley might’ve just set up the wards himself if he ever felt the inclination. Not that Crowley ever really imposed on the shop often.

He wants things to go back to normal. And he knows that this is the only way forward. Between the two of them there are so many words unsaid that Aziraphale feels choked by it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says instead of everything he wants to. He tries his best not to sigh. “I’ll phone Anathema. Please, dear, just put the books back when you’re done. They’ve gone through enough abuse.”

Crowley grumbles something about knowing how to properly take care of books and bumbles off, and Aziraphale picks up the phone.

At first Aziraphale doesn’t notice the way Crowley continues to drift away in corners. It’s what Crowley’s always done, flit in and out of Aziraphale’s life with the turning of time, and it’s hard to notice the anxiety that Crowley takes with him now.

Before Aziraphale would pass his days interspersed with Crowley popping in for drinks or meals out, but for the most part he spent his time in his own world. He’d been on Earth six thousand years and even with Heavenly assignments he spent plenty of time wasting time away. He doesn’t mind time alone; in fact he enjoys it. His bookshop was created for it. The quiet solace amidst the world is a cherished thing, and occasionally Crowley makes an appearance in it.

It’s not that he didn’t want him there. It was just their game, in a way. Crowley would tempt, push, edge Aziraphale out of what he’d thought before, and wait for Aziraphale to push back. It was for that reason that Crowley never invited Aziraphale over, never before went upstairs to the bookshop’s flat, never expected Aziraphale to push first.

Somewhere in Aziraphale’s mind he knew that’s not the way things worked anymore.

The fear he sees in Crowley’s eyes sometimes is truth enough, but Aziraphale can’t seem to look at it directly. It’s hard enough to see, let alone to know what to do with. Time and time again Aziraphale finds himself alone in his bookshop, shocked, totally unaware when Crowley slipped away.

Crowley’s not okay. Aziraphale knows that much. He can see it in the way his expression wavers dangerously at times, or the faint tremble of his fingertips when they drink some nights. Despite how hard he’s tried to fall back into their old routine it’s clear Crowley is terrified and Aziraphale has no idea how to stop him.

One night, one of the endless times that Crowley tried to make a b-line out of the shop Aziraphale stops him.

“What’s gotten into you?” Aziraphale asks, grabbing Crowley’s elbow before his frantic trajectory can let him back out onto the London streets. Crowley gapes at him, turning to look at him, shocked.

“Uh,” Crowley says. The act of stopping him has clearly flustered him and he verbally stumbles. “Going out?”

“Yes, but why are you going out like you’re being pursued by hellhounds?” Aziraphale says and Crowley winces. There’s a certain tenseness about him, and he looks paler than normal. “Are you alright?”

“Ah,” Crowley says. “It’s nothing, just gotta go grab the—some things from Tesco. I’ll just be out for a bit.”

“For a demon you’re a terrible liar, dear,” Aziraphale says, archly ignoring Crowley’s fumbling.

“I thought,” Crowley says haltingly. “Figured I should leave.”

“Why would you think that?” As far as Aziraphale was concerned they were shaping up to a nice cozy evening in, tucked in the backroom with a lovely hibiscus tea blend Crowley had picked up for him.

The series of unintelligible noises isn’t too informative, but eventually Crowley gets to it. “You were reading.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I live in a bookshop, dear.” Then, he hesitates. “Does it really bother you?”

“No!” Crowley says. “No, you should—you can read all the books you want. Didn’t want to be underfoot, thought I should head out.”

Aziraphale frowns, considering his words for a moment. “If you want to stay I’d like you to. We can break out some wine, too, if you fancy it.”

“I,” Crowley says, then turns away from the door. A concession, given reluctantly. “Yeah. Sounds nice.”

It takes Crowley a glass and a half of wine and twenty minutes of lazing on the couch before an explanation can come from him. He’s staring at the ceiling when he begins to talk, casually, as if the words have no meaning at all.

“I thought after everything it would be easy, but I can’t seem to do a damned thing right,” Crowley whispers, nearly so quiet Aziraphale can’t hear him. “I just can’t do right by you.”

“That’s not… Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He puts his wineglass down. Suddenly the excellent wine is not so appealing anymore. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything and Aziraphale fidgets, mentally stumbling over words.

“I hope that you—“ he stops, reconsiders his words. “I want to know how to help you, if you could tell me.”

“You’re doing everything fine,” Crowley says. “You’re perfect, angel.”

Perfect. Right.

It’s a frustrating experiencing learning what Rathis did while in his body. To the rest of the world it was him, his face, his actions. His neighbors are surprisingly bitter with him the next time he speaks to them. A very nice French café won’t even let him enter now. Crowley fixes most of the humans’ memory despite Aziraphale’s protests, but there’s one person’s whose memory can’t be snapped away.

Crowley doesn’t bring it up directly. There are just times where Crowley goes tense and silent, or worse, flinches at Aziraphale’s movements. Aziraphale knows this isn’t his fault, but it’s hard not to feel hurt the number of times Crowley skulks away to watch on the periphery. The bookshop used to be someplace comfortable, a safe place, but now Crowley feels unwelcome because of a hurt that Aziraphale has no idea how to touch.

“Did he—did I ever hit you?” Aziraphale asks. It’s one of the days where Crowley’s a bit frayed at the edges, but not enough to force him into hiding. Aziraphale’s reread the same three pages of Kate Chopin’s _The Awakening_ a dozen times, all too distracted by the distress boiling beneath Crowley’s skin.

“What?”

“When—during the possession,” Aziraphale says. He still doesn’t know how to talk about it, yet. _When I was possessed_ feels wrong to say. Maybe _When I let a demon take over my body_ would feel more accurate.

Crowley frowns. There’s something murderous in his eyes, now. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Aziraphale knows well enough when he’s being lied to, but the last thing he wants to do is force Crowley to talk. Still, it bothers him, not knowing what was done with his face when he was unaware. Every night now Crowley will climb the stairs and sleep in the bedroom, and Aziraphale stays awake and worries. He worries.

He doesn’t like to feel so out of control. Those months he spent untethered have unwittingly jarred his self-confidence. It’s not as if he thinks it will happen again. No, he will not be so foolish again to stumble alone into such an obvious trap. What worries him is how much he wanted to give up into it. While in Rathis’s possession it was almost a relief to stop thinking, to stop trying. He keeps thinking about that fantasy where Crowley had run away, safe, and Aziraphale could just sink beneath the black waves in his mind.

It’s not the first time he’d felt alone. Certainly not. Among six thousand years of being a singular dissonant voice in Heaven a couple months in the grips of an angry demon is… inconsequential. Irrelevant.

It doesn’t stop him from going back to it, time and time again. Trauma, he wants to tell himself, but it’s only been a little over a year since the world ended and Aziraphale thinks about that far less. There was less allure to the appearance of Satan than the blank lull of the back of his eyelids.

It’s not that it’s pleasant to think about. It’s just… tempting. It’s a dark void that sucks him in if he looks at it too closely. Despite how bad those thoughts make him feel it’s impossible to keep himself away.

Sometimes it’s just more pleasant than thinking about what his actual future holds. A future of abandonment. No Heaven, no God… he’s taken too many things for granted. His life on Earth, or even Crowley… none of it is guaranteed.

He’s tired. It scares him. There are nights where Aziraphale goes out for walks in an attempt to clear his head and it’s only the rising dawn that brings him back home. Although Crowley would never admit it, it worries him when Aziraphale leaves without notice. So he tries to keep himself around when Crowley gets up, though it doesn’t stop his mind from spiraling into nothingness if he’s not careful.

It’s not even easy to keep busy. Try as he might, Aziraphale can’t seem to hook Crowley into any of their usual dalliances. Sure, Aziraphale will suggest a new restaurant and Crowley will go, if a bit more quietly and subdued than normal. He will go about the motions, smirking at Aziraphale through dessert, and then they will go back to the shop and its oppressive silence; if there’s wine then it’s seldom and solemn, and Aziraphale drinks it with a dry mouth. Where Aziraphale used to expect for Crowley’s scheming plans to pull the thread of their night past the drive home there is nothing.

Aziraphale resents it. Not Crowley, of course not, but this was supposed to be their winning number. Bested the apocalypse, got rescued, and here comes the conclusive ending. But there is no endgame, there is no big finish. Aziraphale just fights himself as he flutters through the shop like trapped fly and Crowley mopes and, ostensibly, keeps guard. It’s often that Aziraphale can’t tell if he’s guarding from intruders, or from him.

Out of everything, Aziraphale fears that what he did in those lost months was injure something crucial in Crowley, possibly irreparably. The single thing he’s grateful for is that Crowley seems disinclined to let Aziraphale too far out of his sight. But Aziraphale isn’t obtuse. He knows they need to talk about it. He doesn’t know how to ask, is all.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Aziraphale said at the beginning, a few days after his recovery, back when he still hadn’t understood how wrong things were yet. He offered a glass of wine to Crowley, and to his surprise he only got a somewhat flat look in response. “How many months do you think? Five, perhaps?”

Crowley didn’t answer, taking carefully measured sips from his wine glass. It’s not until Aziraphale’s going on about something entirely different that Crowley mutters, “Six.”

“What?”

“Six months,” Crowley says, but refuses to elaborate. After that point he was slow to answer anything else, even when Aziraphale gave up and let the subject change. He certainly doesn’t talk about the months Aziraphale is missing.

So a couple days later, he tries again with, “Oh, dear, I’ve missed so many important things. Did you know that lovely Ms. Clarke downstairs got engaged? And that dreadful politician in the papers again—“ Aziraphale caught Crowley staring at him. “Oh, I know, of course I missed tons. I’ll have to do plenty of reading to catch up.”

By the time Aziraphale glanced at Crowley again he was back to studying his phone, and he doesn’t even look up to where Aziraphale’s fretting at a pile of unsorted mail. Nothing in Aziraphale’s meandering dialogue sparked even a mote of interest. No sports game or new invention or celebrity headline events got a single comment out of Crowley.

It wasn’t until weeks later that he got any response to any of his attempts. He’d been prodding at Crowley for a while, fluttering around the shop with everything from the new purchases he’d acquired to some white chocolate truffles he thought Crowley would fancy. Crowley went along with it, of course, as he usually did, but underneath the veneer he looks tired. Despite Aziraphale getting him to promise a dinner out with him, Aziraphale begins to reconsider. He wants to spend time with him but he doesn’t want to force him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, slowly. He realizes he’s probably overwhelming Crowley. “You’re not looking well. Perhaps we should reconsider going out tonight. Stay in for a bit.”

Crowley’s carefully neutral expression spasms minutely. “Don’t hold back on my account.”

“But, oh, it’s no bother,” Aziraphale says. “Perhaps we could have a few glasses of wine and—“

“I said I’m fine,” Crowley hisses, an undercurrent of fury that makes Aziraphale stop in his tracks. Aziraphale’s gaze on him makes Crowley hunch his shoulders, scowling. “I didn’t ask for you to coddle me.”

“What?” Aziraphale stutters. “Crowley, I’m just trying to help. If you tell me what you need—“

“I need you to _trust_ me!” Crowley shouts, standing up quickly enough that he sends a stack of books crashing off the end table. The suddenness of the motion makes Aziraphale flinch forward, instinctually trying to catch Crowley who shrugs off his touch. “Stop! Just stop.”

“Stop… what, dear,” Aziraphale says, blinking back shock. It’s an uncharacteristic outburst to say the least, and he’s not sure what he said wrong. While Aziraphale is plenty aware that he’s not the only one Crowley’s talking to, but he still has no idea what to say to Crowley’s anger.

“I know thisss isss our game, but I can’t take it. You sound like—” Crowley growls, cutting himself off. “Just asssk what you want.”

“Our game,” Aziraphale echoes.

“Fuck,” Crowley says, wrenching off his glasses. He gestures with them when he talks next. “You know, the puppy eyesss, the fretting, expecting me to figure out what you’re thinking.”

“I, er, I don’t do that,” Aziraphale says, trying not to look flustered. “I was just saying that you looked peaky, dear, and—“

“You’d never—yeah, okay,” Crowley says, laughing. It’s not a nice laugh, not like it normally is. Aziraphale doesn’t know what he did to deserve it. “It’s—you know, it’s fine, it’s the way things are done. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

Crowley sets himself to haphazardly restacking the books he felled; shaking away Aziraphale’s concerned touch on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry—I didn’t want to upset you. I just wanted to know if you’re okay,” Aziraphale says.

“I know,” Crowley says. “I know.”

“You’re not okay,” Aziraphale says, watching as Crowley studiously restacks the books. It’s not as if Crowley had ever really cared about the particular placement of Aziraphale’s scattered books, but now he seems to be ever so focused on the order of each book. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Crowley says.

“What did you mean ‘our game’?” Aziraphale frowns at Crowley’s silence. “I think we’re long overdue to talk.”

Something about it makes Crowley freeze where he’s knelt. His hands shiver in place, hovering over a book that Aziraphale couldn’t care less about at the moment.

“It’s nothing,” Crowley whispers.

“I—I just wanted to know what the demon—what I did to you, Crowley.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Crowley says, his shoulders hunching up to his ears.

“What the—the—oh, you know what I mean, Crowley.”

“Nothing,” Crowley hisses.

“Evidentially he did something,” Aziraphale says.

“He took you,” Crowley says, scowling. “Is that not enough?”

“I know that’s not all of it,” Aziraphale says. “I saw some of it, he—“

“It was nothing,” Crowley says. He stands up, brushing himself off with such urgency he nearly knocks the books aside again. Subtly, like he’s trying not to draw notice to it, he puts some distance between him and Aziraphale. “I was fine. It’s over. Nothing to worry about.”

“What did I say? What did I say to you?” Aziraphale steps back into Crowley’s space. “It must’ve been terrible.”

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Crowley bites out, and then winces. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Aziraphale grabs Crowley’s arm, clearly anticipating him to try to flee again. “Please tell me,” Aziraphale pleads. “I have to know.”

Crowley hesitates, his arm slackening in Aziraphale’s grip. “You—Aziraphale, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t you. You’re fine. You’re—you’re perfect.”

“I’m not, though,” Aziraphale says. “I upset you with my fretting, and I have no—the last thing I want to do is upset you more. We need to talk about what happened, my dear.”

“I hope you know,” Crowley says, after hesitating almost a moment too long. He speaks like the words are being pried out of him. “I knew—it was obvious that something was wrong from the beginning. No question. So you don’t have to keep worrying about me going about unaware.”

“The beginning?” Aziraphale’s hand spasmodically clenched against Crowley’s arm before releasing to a light touch, trailing fingertips down Crowley’s arm. “You knew?”

“Errgh, yeah, of course, you wouldn’t drink with me, you weren’t interested in fancy cakes or trips anymore. I thought maybe I did something to make you angry, but I couldn’t—you wouldn’t tell me.” Crowley hesitates for a moment, and Aziraphale’s heart drops again. “You—I kept expecting to figure out. But I couldn’t. I didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“You’d tell me things that didn’t make sense, or ask me to do something and— in all the nine circles of Hell, angel, what was I supposed to do, leave?”

“Yes!” Aziraphale says. “I was hurting you. I could’ve _killed_ you, Crowley.”

“I’d never,” Crowley says. “There was—there’s no way I would do that. I had to stay.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asks. “In all the time that I remember it was like—you wanted to stay. I was being so _horrible_ to you.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, pleading. “I thought I lost you.”

“I know!” Aziraphale says, much louder than he intends. “But if you lost the person who—who would _dare_ to treat you like that why is that so bad?”

“Because you weren’t always that way!” Crowley shouts back. “I couldn’t lose you—all of you—I needed to—how could I help you if I ran away again?”

Aziraphale goes quiet. _Again?_ Not the time. It’s an effort to stay focused when what he really wants to do is bundle them both up in the back with the best bottle of wine he could find. “Crowley, dear, you’re not indebted to me. There’s surely more—“

“Fuck!” Crowley says, and presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. His glasses nearly go clattering to the ground. “Aziraphale, I know a future without you in it is worse than anything you could’ve done to me. I had to… I’m not going to apologize for caring about you if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Oh.” Quietly, several things recalculate in Aziraphale’s mind. The dark haze draws back, just a little. He looks at Crowley, face pinched with agitation. “Oh. Crowley.” Aziraphale gently takes Crowley’s hands from where they’re pressed harshly into his face. “Then surely you understand why it pains me so much to know you’ve been hurting without help for so long.”

“You are,” Crowley says. “Helping.”

“I know this isn’t enough. I’m still upsetting you. I just—“ Aziraphale sighs. “I need to know what happened.”

Crowley fidgets for a moment. “Okay,” he whispers. Then, even quieter, “Okay.”

They’ve already drifted close enough to each other to touch. It’s the slightest movement for Crowley to rest his forehead on Aziraphale’s.

“Stay and we’ll talk after. Don’t go,” Crowley whispers, his yellow eyes shuttered in their close proximity. “Please.”

“Never,” Aziraphale says.

“Just watch,” Crowley breathes. “And I’ll be here at the end.”

And then Aziraphale’s vision fades to black and he wakes up in a memory.

“I think,” Crowley says once he’s mustered up the courage. Aziraphale doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow, and it takes a little bit more courage to keep going, “That we should talk.”

“Talk about what, my dear?” Aziraphale’s idly flipping through a book, as he often is, but he looks bored. Exasperated by it. Briefly Crowley wishes he chose a better time, if such a time even exists.

“You’ve been acting strange. These last few months you’ve hardly even—“ Crowley’s words go dry when Aziraphale’s piercing gaze flicks up to him. Quickly he reconsiders his words. “I feel like I’m missing something.”

“You know I don’t like to be disturbed, is all,” Aziraphale says. True to his word he’s barely looked away from his book. “I can’t clear my schedule for you.”

“I… know. I wouldn’t ask you for that,” Crowley says. He feels wrong-footed. What was he trying to say? “I—I don’t feel like you want me around anymore.”

“I don’t understand why you’re coming to me like this. If you want me to spend time with you I will,” Aziraphale says. As if to illustrate his point Aziraphale closes the book. It’s the first time he’s looked at Crowley in what feels like years. “Why don’t you ever bother to ask?”

“I—“ Crowley’s temporarily waylaid by memories of trying to get Aziraphale’s attention only to be rebuffed. All the times where he’s been told to stay still and silent in subtle, passing ways feel so obscure in retrospect. But asking—did he ask? His voice comes out weak. “I tried.”

“I can’t read your mind, you know,” Aziraphale tuts. “It’s not fair to blame me for your struggles with communication.” The book’s being opened again and it makes Crowley’s heart skip.

“Well, no—I’m sorry!” The desperation in him is untethered. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from. He just doesn’t want this conversation to be over and if the book comes back out he doesn’t know the next time he’ll get to talk like this. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t mean—“

Aziraphale glances over the edge of the book, eyes steely.

“Please,” Crowley says. His knees wobble and he slumps clumsily to the ground. It feels like there’s a force pressing down at the back of his neck, keeping him on the ground. “I just want you to stay. Forgive me.”

Aziraphale smiles wryly. Gazing down at Crowley he looks nearly unrecognizable. There’s a gleam in his eyes that sends a shiver down Crowley’s spine.

“No,” Aziraphale says. His eyes are gunmetal cold. “You said it yourself. You’re unforgivable.”

The memory bleeds out and then it’s Crowley knocking at the bookshop door with a bottle of wine in hand and receiving no answer. He stands there, fidgeting at the door for long minutes before he peaks in at the window. Aziraphale sits at the desk, unflinching when Crowley knocks on the window.

There’s a moment where Crowley hesitates but then he’s letting himself into the bookshop, calling out to Aziraphale.

“Nice of you to let me in,” Crowley says, putting the bottle of wine on the desk next to Aziraphale. “Don’t tell me you’re too occupied to entertain a good old temptation?”

“Unfortunately so,” Aziraphale says, his eyes barely flicking to the bottle of wine before they settle back on the book. He manages to convey a great deal of annoyance in the noise of a turning page.

The wry smile on Crowley’s face slips straight off. “Oh,” Crowley says. The corners of his mouth go tight. “It’s not upstairs, is it?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale says. “It’s nothing you would understand.”

An expression of hurt passes Crowley’s face so quickly it would be hard to see even if Aziraphale had been looking. “Right.”

It looks like he wants to storm out, but he stops, hand on the door handle. He looks over his shoulder in heartbreaking hopefulness, but Aziraphale’s attention has never swayed from the book in his hands.

“If you—Aziraphale, if you need me I’ll be there,” Crowley says. “Anytime.”

He wants an answer, he deserves an answer, but he gets nothing, and when the bookshop door closes the memory shatters again.

Crowley’s sitting in the Bentley, and though the ignition is off he can feel the thrum of life in it poking at him. He’s been sitting a little ways from the bookshop for long enough he’s lost track of time, lost in the buzzing silence among the ambience of Soho.

There’s something wrong with Aziraphale. That much is obvious. He looks at him with a foreign strangeness, speaks with a lilt just too different. Crowley’s known Aziraphale for six thousand years; six thousand years is enough to know when something is awry.

The small stumbling point is that Crowley can’t figure out _what_ is wrong. Heaven and Hell seem to have kept their promises. None of the demons Crowley’s cornered and threatened information out of says otherwise, even as they confess some angels have gotten somewhat chummy with downstairs.

Aziraphale looks fine. He hasn’t even started fretting. If anything he’s descended into a cold focus that Crowley’s never seen from him, not even during the apocalypse. Yet the epicenter of his focus seems to be… books on demons? None of it adds up, and Crowley worries that snooping too much further is an invasion of his privacy.

Crowley knows he’s being shied away. He also has six thousand years of experience in Aziraphale pushing him away, and while the eagle eyed sharp smile isn’t a tactic he’s familiar with he gets the gist. He’s supposed to go home and get out of his hair… but he can’t. Not again.

To stay when Aziraphale has been saying, in the indirect way he says everything, that he wants Crowley to leave would go against everything they agreed upon in the arrangement. Crowley knows, possibly too well, that if he does this then it’s endangering whatever relationship he has with Aziraphale.

But he has no choice. He sits in the Bentley and feels the sinking dread that whatever is happening to Aziraphale is happening to him alone. How lonely it must be.

He made a promise, and he’ll stay. He’ll figure out what’s wrong. Even if that means losing Aziraphale forever he will not let him suffer without any help.

So he gets out of the Bentley and lets himself into the bookshop.

Aziraphale blinks away the afterimages of the memories and frowns down at Crowley. He won’t meet his eyes, looking askance.

“There you go,” Crowley says, pulling away. He settles back on his heels, drifting as far away as their linked hands allow. “Now you know.”

“I hope—“ Aziraphale tries. His voice falters. “You do know none of what I said then was true, yes?”

Crowley snorts. “Which part? The part where I fell apart over the rules of our little guessing game? Pretty sure that just happened again a couple minutes ago.”

“No—no, it’s that—” Aziraphale stutters, the grip he has on Crowley’s hands tightening. “I always want you around, none of those conditions. And your feelings are important to me. I— _he_ treated you like you were _disposable_.”

“Yeah, well,” Crowley says, trying on a smile. “Should’ve just packed for Alpha Centauri and been done with it like you said.”

Aziraphale flinches which makes Crowley’s smile dissipate. “I’m sorry—I hope you don’t believe that if you somehow—overstep or what have you—oh, Crowley, I’ve never wanted to turn you away. I never should’ve said so.”

“I get it,” Crowley mumbles. “S’fine. I’ll always be by your side, angel.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Aziraphale says. He feels his eyes burning, the feelings in his chest wildly growing out of control before he can do anything to mitigate it. “All this time you’ve stood by me for so long and I have not been looking—I—I care about you so much, my dear. You know that, right?”

The beat of silence is not very heartening. “Yeah,” Crowley says slowly. “I—you said you didn’t mean—we’re friends, right?”

It catches in Aziraphale’s throat, tight and hot. He knows if he cries now Crowley will be distracted by it, he’ll comfort Aziraphale instead of the other way around, so Aziraphale blinks hard. “May I hug you?”

“I—“ Crowley’s giving him a strange look, but Aziraphale doesn’t put his arms down. “Okay.”

Aziraphale tucks Crowley close to him, his hands clenched tight against Crowley’s shoulder blades. This close Aziraphale can feel him breathing, can feel the warm heat of him. “I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale says, and it makes Crowley’s breath hitch. “It has been a—an incredible privilege to know you for the last six thousand years and you deserve to be cherished.”

“Alright,” Crowley says. He’s trying to sound annoyed, but his voice comes out wobbly and hoarse. He pushes weakly at Aziraphale’s shoulder but gives up when Aziraphale squeezes him tight. When it’s clear Crowley isn’t going to say anything else Aziraphale swallows tightly.

“Would you like to stay for wine?” Aziraphale says with his face still tucked against Crowley’s tense shoulder. This close he barely has to whisper for Crowley to hear. “I would like you to stay.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley says.

He stays and drinks, and late, when Crowley thinks Aziraphale isn’t listening, Crowley will whisper _I love you, too_.

Nothing goes back to normal like Aziraphale would’ve wanted. In time he realizes that that may not be as bad as a thing as he first thought.

The guilt doesn’t dissipate. Not that he thought it would. He still sees the fear in Crowley’s eyes and hates himself for it, even if Crowley would never blame him. It helps to make the displays of affection easier, though. An action that would’ve had him in a crisis over Heaven’s watchful eye is inconsequential now.

He knows God isn’t watching. None of them are. That doesn’t mean he’s alone. He can hold Crowley’s hand and they will be the only surveyors. He has a lot of love to make up for, besides.

Now that Aziraphale’s truly paying attention he knows how endlessly Crowley’s affection unspools. He gives with every furtive glance, every gift given and dinner had. Crowley is still anxious and occasionally shaken to the core with doubt, but he still loves besides.

He loves beside Aziraphale, as he always has.

In spite of this, Aziraphale still has his fits of gray moods. He sits in the dark bookshop and feels the unmooring weight of it drift him out to sea. He’s ashamed of it, in all of what has transpired.

Amidst the darkness Aziraphale realizes that he needs to take a risk. It’s habit – it’s easy to lose himself in a good book and ignore the realities of his anxiety. It doesn’t solve anything, though. He can’t wait for Crowley to come to him with a plan. He won’t leave Crowley alone.

And Aziraphale won’t be alone either.

It’s a sobering thought. Millennia of being under Heaven’s thumb, millennia of never really knowing what the future could hold… perhaps he doesn’t need to be resigned to that darkness anymore.

It’s a realization that comes to him when he’s meandering the shelves of his bookshop. He’s been there, what, three hundred years? It’s one of his truest loves, but the walls have shadows to them. The shop was designed as a cover story, one without room for Crowley.

Fortunately Crowley’s still in the shop, reading something on his phone while snacking on leftovers. It gives Aziraphale a great opportunity to share his plan.

“I’m thinking of moving,” Aziraphale says.

“Oh,” Crowley says.

“You’re welcome to join me,” Aziraphale says before Crowley can get any ideas.

“Oh,” Crowley says again. He doesn’t say anything else. He became a frozen statue as soon as Aziraphale started talking.

“Is that all you have to say?” Aziraphale says a bit heatedly.

“I,” Crowley says. “Where?”

“Well, I was thinking the South Downs, you see,” Aziraphale says, suddenly abashed. “It’s, well, it’s gorgeous there.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. His voice cracks. He’s got a bit of noodle held precariously between his chopsticks and he’s yet to lower them. “Yeah.”

“So,” Aziraphale says slowly. “Is that a yes?”

“Christ,” Crowley says, much louder now. “Of course. Are you bloody barmy? I’ve been wanting you to ask me that for—for millennia, angel.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. The wash of relief in him nearly makes him lightheaded. “Good.”

Moving into the house looks like this:

The cottage is a beautiful thing in a beautiful little town, and everyone who sees them has hearty greetings and housewarming gifts to give. Aziraphale receives this with reserved politeness and Crowley grumbles through it all.

“Casserole, angel?” Crowley says. He’s brandishing the full dish they’ve kindly been given by a neighbor. “After years of only London’s best you’re willing to debase yourself with Mrs.DeMacy’s casserole?”

“If you’re going to be like that then it’s all for you, I suppose,” Aziraphale says, to Crowley’s crow of laughter.

“I don’t think so,” Crowley says. “I think it was one of my coworkers who decided green beans should be in casserole. Couldn’t have been Hastur’s style, he’d been too preoccupied with onions.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says. “That particular one goes to Gabriel. He wanted to, ah, what he say… maximized _the utility of vegetables_ I think it was.”

Without the ever-present hum of city noise Aziraphale can hear Crowley’s laughter all the better.

The cottage itself is humble while still top of the line. Crowley would never accept otherwise, and so their kitchen was bright and gleaming with new, gorgeous electronics and kitchenware. The stovetop was shiny enough for Aziraphale to see his reflection in.

“Does this mean you’re going to take over the burden of cooking for me?” Aziraphale says once he’s looked around the kitchen, a bit stunned. It definitely is a lot shinier than it was before.

Predictably Crowley’s answer consists mostly of broken consonants. “Eh, uh, well, after some practice I’m sure I could whip you up something. Not sure it would be _Ritz_ worthy or anything, but—“

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale says. “I’m sure you’ll make me something wonderful.”

Crowley only grows redder when Aziraphale leans in to kiss his cheek.

There’s a room that leads to a patio just for Crowley’s plants. At first Aziraphale worried it would look sparse, but once they start to move in it’s immediately apparent how many plants Crowley truly has. It easily takes up a good portion of the procured space, turning the foyer into a veritable jungle.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale coos once Crowley’s brought them all in.

“Shh!” Crowley says, plopping a pot down and scowling at the plants. “Don’t let them hear that. If they’re spoiled they’ll forget how to work hard.”

“I’m sure a few kind words won’t spoil them,” Aziraphale says, trying not to smile when it makes Crowley scowl at the closest plant. “They’re very hard working. They deserve the praise.”

When Crowley finally realizes that Aziraphale isn’t looking at the plants he flushes red and bustles off in a huff.

The immense library has custom made shelves that rise to nearly the ceiling. It used to be a musty study before Crowley gave it a stern talking to, and now the windows shined bright and the floor shone clear. Aziraphale’s lumpy sofa and armchairs make an unfortunate appearance but Crowley concedes at the addition of a new blanket to put a little light in them.

The fireplace idea is doused by a few sharp words from Crowley. It only takes a bit of needling for Aziraphale to get Crowley to talk about why.

But this time, safe in a home of their own making, the conversation is not as scary as it once was. It’s warm in their new home, full of places for new memories. As night turns to dawn they sit and talk, and for the first time in a long time, it almost feels alright.

There’s no forgetting the past, but there’s making a future in spite of it.

It’s evidence of his progress that when the letter comes he doesn’t even pick it up before he calls Crowley. Wherever he is it’s noisy in the background but he picks up within moments.

“What’s up?”

“It’s Aziraphale,” Aziraphale says over Crowley’s despairing _I know it’s you_. “I… I need you to come back home. There’s a letter.”

“A letter?”

“A letter from Hell.”

“I’ll be there in a moment,” Crowley says, and the line goes dead.

When Crowley says a moment he really means a moment, and Aziraphale has barely had time to put the phone down and begin to fret before the front door is opening. He even has the grace to lock it behind him before he sweeps up to Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?” Crowley says, and it’s evident he’s looking Aziraphale over even with the glasses covering his eyes. “Did you open it?”

“I’m fine,” Aziraphale says. “Haven’t touched the thing yet.”

Crowley smiles a bit. It’s a hesitant expression, still tinged with anxiety, but Aziraphale can tell he’s taken notice of that.

“Right,” Crowley says. “Show it to me.”

It’s addressed to both of them, surprisingly. The wax seal on the back is what gave its origins away to Aziraphale, and while Crowley handles the letter like it’s a live bomb Aziraphale laments the lack of wax seals in modern society.

“Oh, please,” Crowley says. “It’s all just grandstanding to look as snazzy as Heaven. It’s just miracled on. Hell hasn’t had wax stamps in hundreds of years.”

Before Aziraphale can object too much on that Crowley pops the seal open and takes out the letter.

It says:

_Dear Demon Crowley and Angel Aziraphale,_

_We’re writing to thank you for vanquishing the demon Rathis for improper body appropriation. He was a wanted fugitive of the Satanic Court and attached is your reward for bringing such a criminal to justice. We appreciate your contributions to the justice and order of the Imperial State of Hell and we hope for your continued dastardly service._

_Signed,_

_The Council of Hell_

“Hell has fugitives?” Aziraphale asks.

“Well, if you broke the rules in Heaven where else are you supposed to go?” Crowley says a bit tartly. Aziraphale frowns, considering this.

“Hell has a judicial system?” Aziraphale asks instead.

“I,” Crowley says. “Must have?”

“What did they send us?”

Crowley peaks into the envelope only to grimace and snap the whole thing out of existence.

“Nothing either of us will ever be interested in,” Crowley says, still fighting back the grimace.

That surprises a laugh out of Aziraphale, and then he can’t stop and then Crowley’s laughing with him. By the time they calm down they’re clutching at each other.

“You think we’re okay, then?”

The smile on Crowley’s face turns soft. “Yeah,” he says. He tugs Aziraphale close into a hug. “Yeah, I think so.”

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed. love you all and take care.
> 
> <3


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